


And I Bet You'll Feel Nuts

by sister_coyote



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-10
Updated: 2008-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy's too drunk to be either very careful or very thorough, but fortunately Havoc's too drunk to really mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Bet You'll Feel Nuts

The last whiskey, Havoc thinks as the two of them try to make it up the stairs to Roy's apartment, was a mistake. Probably the last _two_ whiskeys. And the brandy. And the green drink with the slice of pineapple that Heymans had given him so much shit about.

At Roy's door, Havoc leans against the door frame—and none too soon, before Roy crashes into him, leaning like affectionate deadweight against his shoulder and moving to get in a quick grope rather than to get his keys. Well, Havoc thinks, it's a good thing he'd finally got a copy of Roy's keys the week before. He fumbles them out of his pocket just as Roy palms him through his slacks, breathes filthy words on an alcohol-laden exhale in his ear. Not that he's complaining, at least not as long as he can still get the door open.

The door finally gives way, tumbling them both inside. They don't quite fall over, but Havoc has to catch himself on the side table, which sends the lamp crashing to the ground. It's metal, so it doesn't break, or at least not obviously, but the lampshade skews badly. Havoc reaches for it, which turns out to be a problem—as he leans over the room tilts and begins to spin alarmingly. At the same time Roy bends over him, grinding a little, sliding his hands up Havoc's chest to find his nipples unerringly, even as drunk as they both are. Must be all the practice, Havoc thinks, as Roy's mouth settles beneath his ear and he says, "Later. Get it. Later. Not now." It's almost nice to see Roy's eloquence and suavity going rapidly out the window (Havoc never had much eloquence or any suavity, so he doesn't have much to lose), and anyway Roy can still make his point perfectly well with a well-timed grind against Havoc's ass.

"Okay," Havoc says, because he's sure the fuck not going to _argue_, not when his dick's throbbing a desperate plea for attention now that Roy's taken his hand off it. Okay, maybe the brandy wasn't a mistake. Or the whiskeys. Certainly not the beer . . . .

Roy's hands slide back down his chest, and then he's rucking up Havoc's shirt, reaching under it to pinch his nipples and then trying to slide it off over his head—Havoc's lucky he wore the black under-uniform tee rather than the button-down or this would be a lot harder. He turns around (well, sort of; the movement makes his head swim and he stumbles to one knee, but that's okay), and fumbles with Roy's belt. It can't possibly be as complicated as it seems at this particular moment, and yet it's a triumph when he finally gets it open and then Roy's pants open too. Roy's keeping up a half-garbled litany of encouragements and promises (the general gist of which seem to be that he wants to fuck Havoc into next week, and Havoc's more than okay with that), but they coalesce into, "Oh, _Jean_, yes," when Havoc finally gets his hand around Roy's cock.

"Mmmn," Havoc says, alcohol and lust having reduced him to wordlessness.

There's a dizzying flurry of motion again—Jean's head whirls, like before, but it's much less unpleasant this time—as they finish undressing each other, though getting Roy's boots off almost results in the two of them knocking over the kitchen table. The kitchen. The kitchen. How'd they get into the kitchen? —Well, besides that it's closer to the door than the bedroom, and neither of them is in great shape for getting around right now, with pleasant intoxication warm in Havoc's belly and both of them fuzzy as hell.

Unfortunately, though, because the lube is in the bedroom, too . . . "Uh," he says, and swallows, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy, "Roy, we need—"

"Got it covered," Roy says. He's remarkably capable of focus, even through god knows how many drinks (how many beers had they had first?), when it comes to sex. He presses something cold and glass against Havoc's back, and Havoc cranes his head to see the bottle of . . . olive oil.

How cliché. Plus, it's the good artisinal stuff, although since Roy's kitted-out kitchen doesn't actually mean he _cooks_, that's probably fine . . . . Still, it if means they don't have to try to get to the bedroom . . . .

"Trust me," Roy says, and presses himself against Havoc, leans in to rub his cock's slick head against Havoc's thigh and mouth his neck, warm wet tongue and the hard edges of his teeth. "I want you so much, Jean . . . ."

He's hardly ever this demonstrative when he's not sloshed. It makes Havoc feel warm, almost as much as all the booze simmering away in his veins. And anyway, he does trust him, so . . . "Okay," he agrees, breathless, and turns a little to seal his mouth on Roy's.

And that's nice, as the room spins gently around him, warm with the light of the overhead lamp and dark and sweet with spring-night wind coming in from the window. Not nice enough to totally distract him from the solid ache in his cock, hard against his belly, but still nice, the smooth skin of Roy's shoulders beneath his hands and the warm, clever wet of his mouth—Roy knows how to kiss really well, must be all the practice; so well that Havoc sometimes wonders if his less-skilled clumsiness is a disappointment, though the enthusiasm Roy shows for Havoc's devouring mess of a kiss would seem to belie that worry. Then Roy is pulling back, hands on Havoc's hips to turn him around, and Havoc knows exactly how to make this work even with them both drunk off their asses. He turns, drops to his knees, hands-and-knees on the linoleum (glad that Roy's floor _is_ linoleum, because tile would be hell on his knees), and Roy's throaty moan behind him makes him think that was a successful decision.

"You," Roy says, "have such a fucking fantastic ass." His hands settle there, stroking, and though that feels good it just makes his poor cock ache more.

Havoc arches, rubbing against Roy's hand, then clears his throat and says, "Hurry up and fuck me already."

Roy moans again, almost a whine, and then there's a flurry of action—he looks over his shoulder: Roy trying to get the bottle of olive oil open. Roy spilling olive oil all over everything trying to get it on his fingers, including droplets on Havoc's ass and the small of his back. Roy's fingers finally—ahh!—yes, there, stretching him open.

Roy's too drunk to be either very careful or very thorough, but fortunately Havoc's too drunk to really mind—senses blunted by booze didn't register the pain of stretching, and they've had sex regularly enough that he doesn't really _need_ a lot of stretching. Roy's fingers work inside him, stretching, brushing his prostate from time to time and making him grind against Roy's hand as Roy grinds his cock against Havoc's thigh. "Jean," he breathes, "so good, I want . . . "

"Yeah," Jean said. "Me too. Hurry up, I'm okay."

"Nnngh," Roy says, "_fuck_," which makes Havoc laugh, because that's exactly right, and then Roy lines himself and slides in and Havoc feels the muscles tighten in his chest and arms and he throws his head back, bends his spine like a bow, and moans, because god, it's good.

Good, a little rough—but that's just right because he's a little numb from all the drinks—and _yes_, Roy thrusting hard with more enthusiasm than skill, but still brushing frequently over Havoc's prostate and making him moan and clench his hands. It isn't going to take long at all, neither of them have much restraint left, and Havoc finds himself grunting and rocking backward against Roy's thrusts without even meaning to, sweating hard, sweating and begging (begging! he never, in his right mind, begs, but that's okay because there's a pleading whine in Roy's voice, too). His hands slip; he crashes to his elbows, bracing with his whole forearms on the linoleum so he can push back . . .

"Yes," Roy is saying, "yes, yes, yes, Jean, let me hear you," which is unnecessary because Havoc is already making a lot of noise, grunts and whimpers—and then one of Roy's oily hands leaves his hip and reaches around to grab his cock and he moans, loud, trying at the same time to thrust forward into Roy's grip and back against Roy's cock. Sweat drips off his brow and chest and onto the floor, and he says something garbled, squeezes his eyes shut . . . .

And comes, long spurts on the floor, which makes Roy sob and bite his shoulder, and fuck him hard for a few more minutes (his hand still warm on Havoc's softening cock) before he comes, too, and collapses against Havoc's back.

Havoc doesn't quite collapse himself, though his muscles feel warm and limp and his head still swirls pleasantly, as much from release now as from intoxication. He refrains not just because the kitchen floor is not exactly the most comfortable place in the world to lie, but also because it's absolutely spattered with sweat and come and olive oil. After a moment Roy shivers and rouses himself, sits back on his heels and pulls out —Havoc can feel Roy's come dripping warm down the insides of his thighs, and Roy hums with pleasure at the sight before digging out a clean dishtowel to wipe Havoc off with.

"Your floor's a mess," Havoc says, which is good, because it spares him from saying something _else_, something gooshy and embarrassing.

"It'll wait until the morning," Roy says. He sounds clearer, which makes sense because Havoc feels clearer, too, though also more exhausted. Exertion, to sweat out the alcohol, maybe . . . "Want a shower?"

"I think I'd fall over."

"Hah. Fair enough. Come to bed, then."

Havoc gets up, unsteadily, and they lean on one another as they go wide around the slick patch on the floor, and then further into the dark apartment, to Roy's bed, and sleep.


End file.
